The Rule
by Anomaliam
Summary: "If you get someone pissed, you have to see them home safely. Make sure they don't choke on their own vomit. That sort of thing. Standard university student procedure." Takes place after Helen goes missing. Stephen's got questions and scotch, and Nick's got some demons to drown. Can be read as Pre-Slash. 2nd Part of Time Stands Still Verse
1. Chapter 1

They have a row the day Helen goes missing.

If someone were to ask (which they have, usually in the form of some thinly-veiled conversation insinuation), he couldn't really tell them what it was about, specifically, just that they had one. She left angry, he stayed mad, and forty-eight hours later, he reported her missing.

He goes into work that day, the day he files the report. It's past noon before he gets in, so he's already missed two of his three lectures that day, and he can already predict he won't be in the mood to give the third. He's fielded enough questions for one day, thanks.

But it's better than the alternative. Going home to an empty house, sleeping in an empty bed ... no, he'd rather not. And at least here, he has something to do. Papers that need marking, dissertations that need putting off until the last possible minute.

Who knows? Maybe he'll actually read them. He could use a good laugh. Or growl. Or snort. He doesn't care which, really; he just wants to feel something that isn't the hollow, gnawing rawness in his chest, like someone's scraped out his insides and filled him with ice and lead. He wants a distraction.

What he gets is a knock on his door.

"No office hours today," he calls out, probably more sharply than he ought to. It's not as if he's posted anything on his door. Maybe he should. But that would mean moving, and that seems like too much effort.

Besides, he thinks he's scared them off a moment.

Then the door opens.

He's got his nose buried in a paper he's only pretending to read, and he doesn't look up when he hears someone walk in. They're moving slowly, hesitantly. He doesn't recognize the gait, and he's thinking that maybe they'll go away if he pretends they aren't there.

"Is it true?"

Or maybe not.

Nick does look up, then, because he knows the voice. Stephen's standing there, and for a single surreal moment, Nick doesn't know if he's happy to see him or if he isn't. But then the moment passes, and he realizes he really, really isn't.

"Not now, Stephen," he says, because the more he thinks about it, the more Stephen's the last person he wants to see right now. The question's still there, reflected in his riverbed eyes that are mercifully dry, if a little bloodshot.

It's been almost a year since Nick's old research assistant had to drop out of classes to have a baby. Stephen was signed on with Nick in the interim, a temporary arrangement until they could find a suitable replacement.

They still haven't.

Still, he's not really Nick's assistant. Helen is his thesis advisor. She's his primary. She's his boss. He doesn't know him well enough for this, to have the conversation that he knows Stephen's looking to start.

Nick's lost his wife (she's not dead; he just doesn't know where to find her). But at twenty three-years-old, Stephen's at that age where it doesn't matter that his relationship with Helen was only a working one. Everything seems more important at that age. Everything is the end of the world, even to someone as level-headed and reserved as Stephen.

He just doesn't show it the same way most people his age do. But it's there. It's there in the way he stands, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Stephen's always got this energy to him, but it's always so still. Predatory, like a cat ready to pound. It's not like this. And Nick doesn't know if he's got it in him to deal with him right now.

Scratch that. He knows he doesn't.

"Cutter, is it true?"

Damn him, he's persistent. Nick swallows thickly. He's not getting out of this without giving him something; Stephen's stubborn that way. Maybe he wouldn't physically block his way, but then again, he wouldn't put it past him. And the sad truth of it is, on next to no hours of sleep (as if it matters how much sleep he's had), there probably wouldn't be much Nick could do in the way of a fight. Stephen's all corded muscle and athleticism. Nick's got him on weight and maybe brute strength, but he's not even sure on the last one.

And why the hell is he thinking so hard about this?

He needs Stephen out of there. He needs Stephen gone, and then he needs to be gone, preferably to the tune of a bottle of whisky and a dim-lit room. Maybe his own, maybe not. A pub could serve the purpose just as well, and he's beyond being picky.

"I'm not talking about this with you, Stephen. Talk to the Dean." He's sure they've got a statement prepared by now.

Stephen crosses his arms, jaw setting. "No."

"No?"

Stephen's lips press into a firm line. The message is clear.

No.

Nick bites back a groan. He can't do this right now. He really, really can't do this right now. "You're acting like a child."

"You're not the only one who cared about her, you know." It's not quite a non-sequitur, but it's not the response Nick was expecting, nor is it said the way he thinks something like that ought to be. It's not a big declaration; he's not indignant. He just says it like it's fact and that's it.

"She was your teacher," Nick says. His chest is getting tight. He's getting frustrated, and Stephen's calm persistence isn't helping. "She was my wife. Clearly, there's a difference."

"I never said there wasn't."

"Then what the hell are you trying to say?" he snaps.

Stephen, damn him, looks more or less unperturbed. "I'm trying to say I understand. As much as anyone, at any rate. Didn't exactly see a queue lining up outside your office to check in."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"You'd rather sit in here and pretend to read papers?"

Nick has to put his pen down before he breaks it. "As opposed to what?" The words are ground like oil through his clenched teeth. He's not got the patience for this. After this morning, after heaps of paperwork and interrogations, he's not got the patience for much of anything.

"As opposed to this." Stephen reaches into his satchel and pulls out a brown bag. Nick knows immediately what it is, even before Stephen pulls the bottle out. Scotch. He had a fresh bottle of Scotch, unopened, and sat it on the table. "Cancelled your last lecture. Told everyone you'd be out the rest of the day."

"You can't just do that," Nick sputters, for lack of any better protest. Truth be told, he's sort of blown away. That bottle of scotch is the best news he's had all day. All week, really. But he can't just go along with it.

"I just did."

Well, in that case.

He reaches for the bottle. And he tries really hard not to be too pissed off when Stephen grabs it first and slides it out of reach. All traces of humour are gone from his face when Nick looks up at him, and he realizes for all the levity, that twenty three-year-old that just lost his mentor is still standing in front of him. He's hurting in a way only younger people like him know how to hurt; he's just coping the only way he knows how.

"Can you tell me?"

Not 'will you tell me' or 'tell me.' He's genuinely asking, not only if Nick is willing to have that conversation with him, but if he's even able to.

It's too raw. He still remembers the look on the constable's face as he finished filling out his paperwork. Forty-eight hours. They're past the mark where, statistically, most people are found. Another twenty-four, the chances decrease exponentially.

It's the not knowing that's the worst, though. Not knowing if she's dead, if she's alive. Not knowing if something stopped her from coming back, or if she just didn't want to. He doesn't have answers, and that's a fucking miserable place to be.

He doesn't know if he can talk about it. But, "Pour me a glass, and we'll see." It's not a great answer. It's noncommittal, it's vague, and it's maybe a bit manipulative.

But Stephen just smiles a smile that doesn't even begin to reach his eyes. "Okay," he says in that funny way of his. Stephen accepts things, rolls with punches that would knock lesser men (arguably saner men) flat on their asses. He just takes it, deals with it, and moves on.

In this case, moving on is twisting open the bottle of scotch and pouring them both drinks.


	2. Chapter 2

He's pissed.

If he's being honest, he was probably past the line two glasses ago. But the scotch is good, and the buzz is better, and the company's not as bad as he thought, either. Stephen's not smashed like he is, he doesn't think. It's not fair. He's refilled his Spice Girls mug a couple times, but other than a warm flush to his cheeks, he looks like he's still fighting fit.

Damn youth. Probably won't even have a proper hangover in the morning. The world really is cruel.

"We should've done this someplace else," says the research assistant in question. It's entirely too practical a notion for someone that's just helped Nick to polish off three-quarters of a bottle of scotch.

"Bit late now."

Stephen nods and drains his mug. "That it is." His lips curl. It's not quite a frown, nor is it a smile. It just is. Funny how that seems to define so much of who he is. Stephen is neither here nor there in so many respects; he just is.

Yet another reason Nick envies him.

"We should get you home."

"'We?'"

Stephen stands, taking his mug and the one Nick's been drinking from. Nick starts to protest (he wasn't finished), but the protest dies when Stephen knocks back the rest of its contents, too. Most people have reservations about that sort of thing, drinking after someone else. But then, Stephen does seem to have different ideas on boundaries than most.

He takes the mugs to the sink along the wall by the lab table. It's The Rule." He somehow manages to capitalize the words with his voice. Not just a rule, but The Rule.

"What rule?"

"If you get someone pissed, you have to see them home safely. Make sure they don't choke on their own vomit. That sort of thing. Standard university student procedure."

Nick bristles, and he's not even sure why. "I haven't had that much to drunk." Maybe he plans to, before the night's out, but that's for him to know. As it is, he's just having trouble getting his tongue to work properly. It feels thicker and heavier than usual. Clumsy.

Same goes for the rest of him, as it turns out. When he stands, he does so with a hand on his desk and a squint to his eyes. He knows the world isn't actually shifting around so much under his feet, and he tells himself it's just his inner ear getting adjusted. He's fine. He's pissed, but he's not fall-over drunk.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine."

"So I'm taking you to yours, then?"

Nick hesitates then sits back down.

Stephen's halfway through tugging on his jacket, but he pauses with one arm still hanging out. "Why are you doing that? Why are you sitting back down?"

"I'm staying here."

"Pretty shoddy place for a sleepover, if you ask me."

Which Nick didn't. "Go home, Stephen. I'll be fine here."

"No, you won't." Not a protest, but a statement of fact.

Nick's temper burns a little hotter. He's not some inept little university student that's had too much drink and can't handle it after. He's a professor. He's got multiple degrees under his belt, literally decades of experience in the field, and what's more, he's a grown sodding man. And Stephen, some barely-past-his-teenage-years student thinks he can tell Nick what's what? He thinks he knows best?

He doesn't know anything.

And he sure as hell doesn't get to tell Nick Cutter what to do.

"I said go home, Stephen. You got what you wanted. You got your answers." He's told him pretty much everything he knows over the past few hours, in between drinks. Everything he told the constables, and everything they told him in turn. He's done. "Now leave."

"So you can sulk alone? I don't think so." He shakes his head, and the stubborn bastard actually takes his coat off and drops back into the chair he pulled up when they were drinking. The crossed arms are just icing on the shite cake that is Stephen's attitude. "I'm not leaving until you do."

Scowling, Nick actually lets out a growl. He's infuriating, Stephen is. This is a new side of him Nick's only ever seen glimpses of before. Now faced with the brunt of it, he decidedly doesn't like it. "You're being childish."

"Does that make you the pot or the kettle?" Stephen asks, unaffected as always.

"Oh, go to hell," Nick snaps. "Don't you understand? Helen's gone. My wife is missing. Best case is she's left me without word or warning; worst case, she's dead somewhere, rotting without so much as a proper burial!"

"I know that, Cutter. You told me."

"And you still don't get it!" He's shouting, now. A few drinks ago, he might have wondered if he was being too loud, if someone might overhear. But he's too pissed, in more ways than one, and too bloody fragmented to care. It's night time anyway. Most everyone's gone. And even if they weren't, he wouldn't be arsed to care. The dam's broken, and he can't stem the flow. He's not even sure he wants to try. "I don't know if you're just not listening, or if you're really as slow as Helen said you were, but she's gone!"

Nick knows he's gone too far the moment he finishes speaking, but it's too late. Stephen's already standing, like snapping up like a spring with enough force to send the chair toppling over. "Fuck you, Cutter!" There's a venom in his voice that make Nick's heated blood run cold. And those damn riverbed eyes are burning. "You're not the only one that cares about Helen! You're not the only one that's worried about her. You think you know everything?" He snorts derisively. "You're just a bitter old bastard."

"I—" Nick starts to say. He's not sure yet if it's going to be an apology or a protest, although knowing himself as well as he does, he thinks smart money's on the latter. But he doesn't get the chance to find out, because Stephen cuts him off with a sharp sigh. He's trying to calm himself down.

He looks...cagey. That's the best word Nick can think of for it. He's shifting his weight like he's about to pace, but doesn't ever quite get there, and he swipes a hand through his hair that makes it stick up in even wilder spikes than before. "You're hurt—I get it," he says finally. It's a notch down from where it was before, but still not his usual levelness.

He's trying; Nick can tell. He tries to do the same, but his blood's still boiling. Stephen's next words don't help that much.

"You don't want to go home because she's not there. You're scared for Helen, and you're hurt, and you're angry at the world for shitting on you. Believe me, I get it. You need someone to take it out on, and I'm convenient."

What gives him the right to be so damn sensible in all this? So damn sympathetic. Or is that empathy? He can't tell. He blames the alcohol.

"Fine."

Nick stops. Fine? Is that what he said? "What?"

Stephen holds his arms out, like an invitation. "I said 'fine.' It's okay. Yell. Shout. Throw things if you like, so long as you know I'm not picking them up later. If it makes you feel better, then have at it."

It's sort of baffling, Nick thinks, because he seems to actually mean it. He's just standing there, waiting for Nick to fling whatever shite at him he wants to. Like it doesn't even bother him. Like he's fine with being Nick's own personal whipping boy.

Maybe baffling's not the right word for it. It's almost disconcerting in a way. He knows Stephen's not some pushover, some doormat. Maybe he's secure enough with himself that whatever Nick has to say, it won't stick with him. But that's hard to believe. No one's that bulletproof.

It doesn't matter. Stephen's right; Nick's all of those things, much as he hates to admit it. He's scared for Helen, hurt, angry. And sometimes he really does feel like a bitter old man. But he's not the kind of arse that takes out his frustrations on someone that doesn't deserve it, even if he gave the go-ahead.

This time, it's his turn to sigh. He scrubs a hand over his face, and suddenly, he can't decide if he's too drunk or not drunk enough. Maybe it's a little bit of both.

Stephen's right about one more thing, too. "We need to go."

"'We?'"

It shouldn't be as much of a relief as it is that Stephen seems to be back to his usual even-mannered self, but in light of recent events, he's willing to take what he can get. "The Rule still stands, doesn't it?"

For a moment, Stephen doesn't answer. But then he gives a small smile that doesn't reach his eyes and pulls his coat back on.

It occurs to Nick on the way out that he's only seen him smile properly twice that he can remember: once, when, they brought him along for an expedition in the rainforest and he managed to find the wounded animal they were trying to locate after ten days of tracking it; and another time, when Helen praised him for his marksman abilities (which are more than impressive, Nick has to admit) when he hit a fleeing tamarind monkey with a tranquilizer dart from more than a football field's distance away.

The last is why Nick has to fight back a wince when, on the porch of Nick's house, Stephen breaks the silence that has reigned since they left Nick's office. "What you said before," he says sort of slowly, and Nick turns around, his back to the now-open door and one foot past the threshold. He frowns, like he's trying to decide if he actually wants to say what he's about to say. But he can't seem to help himself. "Did Helen...did she really tell you I was slow?"

He sounds offhand enough, like he's asking out of genuine curiosity. But Nick's finding the alcohol is providing a certain sense of clarity, and he's slowly learning that Stephen might not be as aloof and distant as he seems. His eyes are ... telling. And right now, they're telling Nick that the answer he gives matters, as much as Stephen pretends it doesn't. He's been holding onto this since Nick said it, after all. Someone doesn't do that if they don't care.

It's out of newfound respect for Stephen, the product of a year of working framed by this one night and a few too many fingers of whisky, that Nick doesn't give him a brush off answer. He actually thinks about it.

Because she did say it. Maybe not in those words exactly, and it isn't as if Helen wasn't generally complimentary of him. It's just that her compliments didn't generally stray to his massive intellect. Which Nick is starting to think wasn't necessarily fair. He may not be on Helen's level when it comes to book smarts, but he's clever, and when it comes to hunting, tracking, and survival in the wilderness, he's not sure he's met anyone with more knowledge or natural intuition. In that, he's a sodding savant.

And as much as Nick believes in telling things like they are, he's not so wrapped up in his own pain that he can't see that Stephen's suffering, too. At twenty-three, every loss is a new and uncharted tragedy, and if Stephen can brave his own pain in consideration of Nick, then Nick thinks he ought to at least try to do the same. So he tries something between the line of brutal honesty and a saccharine lie.

"That's not what she said," he tells him. It's true; that's not exactly what she said. It'll do. "I was angry; I said things I shouldn't have said. Helen admired you, Stephen." He's not sure why the past tense comes so naturally, now. He thinks it should be harder. Maybe it will be in the morning, when there's nothing left of the haze in his head but banging drums. But for now, everything is ... simpler. "She cared about you, too."

Stephen seems settled by that, somehow. The tension in his shoulders eases a bit. "She might still be out there," he offers mildly. It sounds like a formality. He wonders if Stephen's saying it more for Nick's sake, or his own.

He supposed it doesn't really matter.

"Aye, she might," he says.

They just stand there after that. It's probably only seconds, but it feels like longer. Nick knows he should back up, go through his door, shut it, and let Stephen find his way home. He should. But he doesn't. It's like some odd sort of magnetism, holding him rooted to the spot (or maybe to Stephen, but he's not sure he's pissed enough to entertain that notion just now).

It's Stephen that clears his throat. "I should go."

"No."

Stephen looks a bit thrown; Nick feels that way. Honestly, he's not sure why he said it. But he did, and he finds he doesn't want to take it back.

Instead, he steps to the side and gestures for Stephen to go in. "The Rule," is the only explanation he offers, and holds up what remains of the bottle of scotch he'd carried with him from the office.

They spend the night polishing off the bottle and talking about nothing at all, and when he wakes up, it's to the pounding of drums in his skull. The hangover's horrible, and the memory of why makes his chest constrict.

But when he goes downstairs and sees Stephen still sprawled out on the couch, empty bottle of whisky hugged to his chest like a stuffed toy, he feels a little better.

Stephen was right the night before: the house feels wrong without Helen there, and he's scared and hurt and angry at the world for shitting on him. But having Stephen there ... small of one as it is, it's a comfort.

Helen's gone, but at least he's not alone.


End file.
